The Land of the Faroes

They call it the land of maybe.

A land for Vikings who couldn’t be bothered to row all the way to Iceland or the U.S.A. or wherever else the Vikings claim to have discovered before anyone else.

For me, it was a fascinating land of contrasts. Wonderful walks; great food; poor architecture; thick mists; magnificent views; mediocre meals; welcoming people; a distinct shortage of bars and food stops; sophisticated shops; ancient history; small hotel rooms; great guesthouses. So bear with me while I try and take you to a strange place, but one which ended up wanting me to go back and explore more and take people who, quite literally, are happiest off the beaten track.

Atlantic Airways is the only airline that flies direct and that from Stansted. Not the easiest airport to reach especially for a West Londoner like myself, but if you are going to the Faroes then starting with a trek to the airport is not that much of an imposition. And Stansted has changed: a modern airport with all the amenities and annoying chain stores. I would recommend paying for fast clearance as the queues to go through security are deceptively long. I’m also lucky enough to have lounge access through my bank and the one I used is excellent even if it was a hike from the gate.

The flight is excellent with a BAE 146 and lots of leg room. The welcome is warm, the service great. It probably helped that the flight was half full but I suspect it would still be acceptable even if the plane was packed though I am rather hoping that the Faroes stays undiscovered so that those who go can exchange secret smiles and handshakes.

You arrive at Vagar airport which takes you – or rather me – back to the days when air travel was special. They were in the middle of building a new terminal during our visit but even with this it will be a small airport with easy arrivals and comfortable departures. I was once diverted to Carlisle Airport when it was still a field with a shed at the end. Vagar airport – there should be a strange symbol over the ‘a’ but hey this is a PC – though far more sophisticated, still has that feel of ‘arriving’ not just being deposited in a foreign country.

You immediately get a feel for the place. It’s bleak; it’s misty but it’s fascinating. You feel as if few people have been here before. When the mist clears, your eye stretches to the horizon and onwards into the North Atlantic. The landscape demands that you explore.

As this is a familiarisation trip (hell of a job, but someone has to do it), we are going to be shown as many hotels and places of interest as is possible in four days. I am not sure why we had to see the airport hotel as I know what a Travel Lodge looks like but the people were welcoming and at least they were managing our expectations.

Then the land started to unfold its charms as we took our first walk across half made paths with only skuas and petrels for company. One thing you find about the walks in the Faroes is that the Grand Old Duke of York would have loved them: you go up to the top of the hill then you come down again. Most of the magnificent cliffs surrounding the 18 islands of the Faroes end in sheer drops. But even if this is a criticism and it isn’t really meant as one – the views half way down are radically different from those half way up, as the path winds and the weather changes constantly– the walks are still worth every step.

A confession: I have never been an enthusiastic walker. But I think I have been converted by the Faroes. When I ski, I don’t do the headlong rush down a mountain – I have taken two hours to do black runs which take normal skiers five minutes – I do green runs through pleasant forests leading to a great lunch. In the Faroes, the walks are like those green runs. You might want poles but they aren’t necessary and at no point do you feel at risk. There are plenty of stopping places and as you rise the vista just opens out to meet you. On that first walk, we didn’t actually reach our supposed destination, but it didn’t matter. The sky and the lake and the fresh pure air were the journey.

On to Torshavn – again there is meant to a strange symbol over the ‘o’ but get used to it -and our first hotel. Good enough, but my room is definitely for one night only i.e. the wardrobe is very narrow and one wouldn’t want to indulge in cat-swinging. Everything is functional and clean, but it reminded me of too many business hotels I have stayed. If you have ever wondered why travelling salespeople drink, try staying in their hotels.

Normally, I would avoid a hotel restaurant like the proverbial plague – they know they’ve got a captive audience and the food is commensurately prison like – but this was the first culinary revelation. The kitchen produced wonderful, innovative food, including smoked guillemot in a ceps sauce and halibut with some truly excellent Chilean wines. Service from friendly staff and everyone speaks English. An evening to remember and savour.

The intrepid few – those who would drink anywhere and at any time – then ventured out in Torshavn, which is the Faroes’ capital. You realise fairly quickly that the Faroese don’t do pubs – the highlight is the ubiquitous Irish pub – and really don’t do bars that well. (If you don’t know the difference between a pub and a bar, then you’re probably teetotal or live in America.) Don’t get me wrong: they do drink and drinking, with some good lagers locally brewed for those who like lager (I’m a real ale snob). But if you are after nightlife, then the Faroes just isn’t it. But then again, if you are after night life you’re probably already baking on a beach surrounded by a thousand other lobsters.

The total population of the Faroes is roughly 50,000 with 20,000 of those living in or around Torshavn. Some of the islands are barely inhabited but there is a charm in experiencing the life the people live. Most places in the world are overrun with tourists – London in July is a polyglot’s nightmare- whereas the Faroes are as I might imagine the moon might be. The islands were formed out of volcanoes and tsunamis thousands of years ago. This left a series of basalt rocks with poor soil and a distinct lack of trees. They grow great rhubarb but there is little evidence of green vegetables – I always thought spinach grew everywhere.

But – and I may be weird – I loved it. We weren’t tourists; we were guests. The second day we had a guided tour of the ancient parliament (Logting) buildings of the islands: essentially a series of stones and wooden houses with grass roofs where courts were held and legislation passed. The Faroes’ Prime Minister still has his office in one of these simple constructions and there was little evidence of security anywhere. Then we were shown round the city. It’s not Rome or Venice or any other famous architectural venue. It’s a simple town with welcoming people who clearly love being there. The arrangements may be haphazard but the intentions are honest and as pure as the water in the streams and the air on the mountains. I liked the place and the people.

The Nordic Centre in Torshavn where we lunched – great fish soup for which a number of us asked, Oliver like, for ‘more’ – is a magnificent building and its curator loves her job. Two concert halls and acres of glass do not detract from a truly welcoming homeliness. I want to attend a concert and hear the music of these islands, but that can wait for the next time.

Nowhere is too far, so in the afternoon we were on a boat trip to the cliffs of Vestmanna. I am told we were fortunate with the weather, but the whole down-to-earth experience was as close to magical as it gets. The ‘captain’, who spent three months in London in 1958 and saw Winston Churchill, knew every cliff and grotto. He could tell us exactly how many sheep were on each vertiginous cliff and how they were landed and collected. The exactness derived from the fact that unless they had fallen off all the sheep had to stay. We saw guillemots, puffins; fulmers; petrels; skuas and a range of birds the names of which elude me – if I ever knew. We were taken into grottoes, which appeared untouched by human hand, save for the odd chain which enables hardy souls to climb up the steep sides of these magnificent rocks. Of course, the men of Westmanna are the strongest on the islands but I have heard that claim in Newcastle too.

We then checked into another hotel, which I will not name to protect the guilty. It did have a great view of the harbour and the police station, but that was about it. But do not despair: the originally named Hotel Torshavn, which we looked at, is more than adequate, good value and has a restaurant with the normal pizza, pasta and chips staples. It is also close to the harbour which is pretty in a Cornish way – I am quite fond of the Cornish way.

Again, the meal that night at a restaurant called Áarstova was close to amazing with its centrepiece a whole shoulder of Faroese lamb cooked for five hours and marinated to give great flavour – not quite up to my mother’s Welsh lamb, but then again I’m biased.

An early start the next day and a two hour walk for some of us to Kirkjubø. It didn’t start well with mist and rain but then, suddenly, we emerged through the mist and found ourselves above the clouds with island tops protruding through, as if floating in thin air. I felt like scampering but at my age it is not advisable.

Our destination in Kirkjubø – the eagle eyed will notice the slash through the ‘o’: isn’t cut and paste grand – is the farm belonging to the 17th generation of the Patursson family. We sit in a pretty good pastiche of an ancient farmhouse and listen to the enthralling monotone of this Faroese farmer. I could have sat there all day – especially if the coffee had been spiked – as he related stories of his family history and just everyday tales of farming folk. Better than the Archers any day.

Before lunch back in Tórshavn, we visited the National Art Gallery. Some interesting pieces, especially by an artist called Edward Fugle, more of whom later, and the most amazing mirrored room. I won’t ruin the experience, but this is almost worth the trip on its own.

This contrasted well with lunch in a trendy hang out of the beautiful Faroese people. Perfectly turned out staff; delicious open sandwiches and more knitwear than I would ever wish to see in a life time – they are big on knitwear in the Faroes.

Then on to our evening stay in the village of Gjógv. On the way, there is a stop at another even smaller village – they do great small villages in the Faroes – where we walk down to the sea. Now, may i refer you to my comments about my previous lack of enthusiasm for walking. So it is raining: the kind of rain that is not heavy, but eventually will soak you to the bone. It is misty and when we finally get to the sea, you can hardly see it. The ‘sand’ is black and volcanic. Yet this is just inspiring. The air is so pure; you can drink water from the stream and the ancient lagoon we pass – created by a thousands year old tsunami – is littered with birds, who just sit there because they don’t see people that often. Truly magic. I am exhausted but delighted.

The village of Gjógv has a guesthouse run by a marvellous man called Erik. It isn’t a beautiful country inn, but Erik is just so welcoming that nothing matters. The recently built extension resembles Stalag 17 from the outside, but the rooms are proper size and I could happily stay there for days on end walking my way round the island. The village is a throwback to the 1950s with children playing in boats on a stream and skipping ropes; a delightful Lutheran church and houses which are beautiful in their simplicity. I half expected to turn a corner to see a game of cricket being played on a village green with old men drinking warm beer: oh yes, it was that good. The food was one choice only and it would appear that they have only recently discovered sauces in the Faroes. One can also tell that a lot of their food was traditionally salted. But Erik let me help myself to a beer and a smile never left his face. I didn’t want to leave in the morning and this is one of the places I will go back to.

The next morning we are on our way to the Gota museum. Now, museums are normally grand things but here we just parked our minivan and the local teacher turned up to take us into a simulacrum of a 19 C Faroese house. This is very practical home architecture. The Faroese people lived and continue to live, in some cases, hard lives. This is not pretty, but it is real and homely. There is the Faroese equivalent of an Aga – other ranges are available at a variety of price points – and a spinning wheel where the wife of the President of Iceland sat and knitted – she doesn’t get out a lot. The more I was there, the more I realised it was not just the place: it was the people. They weren’t world weary tour guides telling the same old stories to groups of bored Milwaukee schoolchildren. They were proper people, who wanted to share the history and the present of their island.

Yes the statue is horizontal, as are many on the islands. As I said, they may not do bars but they do do drinking. This is famous chief who refused to convert to Christianity until, in traditional Christian fashion, they threatened to cut off his head. That concentrated his mind wonderfully and on his knees he went.

And then to Klaksvík, the Faroes second city, and the magnificent Heini. I could have moved in with Heini apart from the fact he was married, shaven headed and probably had plenty of mates of his own. Any man who carries a six pack of beer in his car and is happy to share is my friend for life, even if it was lager. We had a truly great walk with Heini to a vantage point where you could see five different islands at once. When I reached the peak, I could quite easily have done the Rocky dance, but when you’re with a group of your competitor travel operators it’s wise not to be too crazy. Suffice to say, they had to drag me back into the minibus for lunch at the equivalent of a service station.

Then Heini took us to his church. A palace of glass built in the 60s with a Faroese fishing boat hanging from the ceiling; a wonderful mural and downstairs ten wooden sculptured roundels by the afore-mentioned Edward Fugle. I am not going to ruin it: just go. There is a perfectly good hotel; a delightfully rough looking bar and more walks than you could do in your lifetime. But find Heini first.

Onwards to the far north of the island, where we set out on yet another walk. My companions beat me as I only made it half way but half way was just wonderful. I sat there and looked round and round and thought this is me. I’m at the end of the world and, like the sheep of Westmanna, I am not going to fall off.

Dinner in a perfectly acceptable restaurant – may I refer you to my previous comments regarding sauces and salt – and back to Torshavn to stay at the finest hotel on the Faroes. I’ll admit the rooms were wonderful; the view over Torshavn breath-taking; the staff perfectly turned out. But give me Erik’s any day. The hotel has supposedly the finest restaurant in the whole of Europe but I’ve been lucky enough to have eaten great food and each super hotel just seems too ‘super’ for its own good. Especially when the barmaid can’t tell a Martini from a Margarita and the choice of white wine is one!

A ridiculously early start the next day saw us back in Stansted for 9.30 or so and I said goodbye to my companions and trekked home.

That’s over two weeks ago and, of course, one is supposed to blog from the place while you’re there but to hell with the rules. The Faroes deserved to be thought about; to be considered; to be weighed: a place of contrasts; of surprises; of unconscious ironies. I may have fallen in love and, like all objects of affection, the Faroes has its flaws, but those same flaws are part of its charm. So I will be back because the Faroes may not change but I will change there and I am pretty sure it will be a different place for me the next time.

AND with the solar eclipse there in March 2015, what a great reason to go. We can organise this for you, please contact us on www.baltictravelcompany.com/contact